Until Only Ashes Remained
by The Five Heads of the Hydra
Summary: This is my take on what happened at the fountain in Randy's POV. This was originally a homework assignment, so this is purposefully not accurate, although Bob does still die. Rated T cause I'm paranoid.


**This was originally a homework assignment so…**

Bob stumbled up to his feet, on his fifth bottle of whiskey already. I frowned to myself, knowing why, exactly, he did this often. Why he continued to stumble home, a drunk, hiccupping mess most days. Why he acted like such a jerk.

I don't know how he convinced me to drink on this exhibition, along with a couple of his friends; I hardly if at all drink. I could smell the alcohol on his breath when he asked me, indicating that he had already had at least one whiskey that I know of. He could be on his tenth one for all I knew. Closing my eyes, I hazily remembered what happened not even twenty minutes ago as I sipped on my first bottle.

I cracked open my front door, staring bemused at the man in front of me. "Bob?"

"Hey, Randy," he slurred, and I knew he was buzzed, or drunk, or on his way to it. As he stumbled around, trying to find the words he was going to say in his currently jumbled brain, I took a once over of him.

His black Converse were partially untied, the aglets frayed at the ends, the used- to- be- black was now a washed out dark grayish shade and the white laces showed a muddy brown color at the tips with an off white color going up. His jeans, the ones he's had since last Friday, were fraying and ripped up at the bottom, albeit professionally done, as well as the rips on the knees and thighs. A black stain mars the blue color partially on his calf, closely resembling grease or oil. His brown, leather belt was thrown on loosely, the buckle crooked and the end hanging down. His red and white plaid Madras shirt was carelessly tucked into his belt. The white of the overly worn shirt was now the same color as his shoelaces. The buttons, a once brilliant ivory, were now a dull ice color, one hanging on by a tiny, red thread of cloth. The collar of his shirt, a wrinkled mess, had the left one sticking straight up like a vampire's cape, while the other hung limply on his shoulder like a tagalong doll. In his hand was a drink- a beer or a whiskey, considering the circumstances. His hand was choking the neck of the glass bottle, his knuckles white from the strain. The bottle coughed out a couple drops of amber liquid, and I watched as the scotch slowly freefell through the air and seeped into the pavement. As it hit, I looked back up at the bottle to see the brand name, but it was facing away from me, so I looked up at his face. His jaw, sprinkled with stubble he was bound to shave off tomorrow, was loose as he moved it up and down, trying to find words he wanted to say. He was drunk, I knew that now. His lips, chapped and dry, smacking together as he finally began to remember what he was going to say. His broad nose, the one thing that didn't make him handsome, although it gave him a rugged charm, was slightly red, as well as his cheeks. His cobalt blue eyes were bright and cheery, as if he didn't have a care in the world, and were half lidded, as if his mind was anywhere but here. His coal hair was tousled up, his bangs hanging over his forehead, the little gaps in between showing the tanned skin of his forehead.

"Wanna go out for a drink, Randy?" He dragged out the 'Y' in my name for a bit, the slight pitch of a whine clear in his voice.

Furrowing my brows, I quickly thought of the pros and cons to going. Honestly, there were many cons, although one pro outweighed the others.

If Bob's friends were as completely out of it as Bob was, who knew what was going to happen. Passing out in the street? Possibly. Doing something highly illegal? Sure. Going to jail? A high possibility. Dying? Highly unlikely, but possible, considering how drunk people would let themselves go without someone there to set the limits.

I bit my lip, hesitating. I vividly remembered the last time when I was dragged along, considering they had gotten me to drink at least five bottles. Marcia had been there with me, and Cherry with Bob. They were mad at us when they had found out he brought booze along, and because we were both drunk, we got livid and stormed out of the theater, only to find out that Greasers had slithered into our places and talked casually with them. And they were okay with that? But… we weren't taking the girls with us now, and the worst they could convince me to get was a really bad hangover.

"Alright Bob. But I'll only have two bottles, okay?" I pointedly raised my eyebrows at him, hoping I got my message through his muddled brain.

He had pouted like dejected baby and nodded his head morosely, although his oceanic eyes still glittered gaily at my acceptance. He wobbled as he turned on his heel, and proceeded to zig zag his way towards his Blue Mustang, which I hastily opted to drive in his place.

And here I was, now sitting in the driver's seat of the Mustang again, cruising around the general vicinity, still on my first bottle, not even halfway done with it.

"Hold it!" Bob slurred, slamming his hands clumsily upon the dashboard, making the radio quickly hop stations until it settled once again on the original radio station. Superstition had just ended, with David singing off key in the backseat, and the beginning of Bohemian Rhapsody slowly crooned out of the speakers. Trying hard not to slam on the brakes, I whipped my head around to where Bob was pointing, a snakes smile on his lips. And where he was pointing were two figures-

Greasers.

The Greasers who picked up our chicks to be exact. Bob and I smirked at each other thinking the same thing. "Let's go show them what we think of them pickin' up our girls, eh Randy?" Once again, he dragged out the Y in my name, but with a sinister edge of malice into it this time around.

David snickered in the backseat, popping open the side door as the car rolled to a stop. Leaving the keys in the ignition, letting Bohemian Rhapsody blaring in the speakers as I stepped out of the car, cracking my knuckles as Bob slowly advanced upon the now frightened boys. Carelessly leaving the door open, I stalked forward as well, crossing my arms over my broad chest. Let's teach them to not mess with our girls, I thought to myself, letting out a dark, booming laugh. David, Andrew and Michael following behind us.

I watched, amused, as the black haired kid- Johnny something-or-other- drifted his hand towards the back pocket of his faded jeans.

"Hey, lil' Greasers," Bob lifted up his lips in a sardonic smirk."I do believe that you picked up our girls." He was still reeling drunk, but this was quickly sobering him up, a serious glint to his eyes the only indication, along with his posture slowly stiffening back up. "C'mere so we can show you what we think bout that."

"You're not 'sposed to be here," Johnny answered back, his voice cold and emotionless, eyes blank. He added on,"Socs."

I swore colorfully at them, the light bit of alcohol in my system shortening my fuse.

Bob beat me to taking back to them, his voice just as snake-like as his grin. "Nuh uh, Grease. You're in for it, and no social lines gunna stop me from that, aint it boys?" He looked at us over his shoulder, the grin turning into a sadistic smile as we answered back. He turned back around, addressing that Pony kid mainly."Wanna know what a Grease is?" Bob didn't let either answer as he continued on, "they're a bunch of trash with long hair."

The Johnny kid gasped, obviously irked by the fact, as the other kids face paled.

Said kid spoke up as he asked us what a Soc was. "A bunch of trash with madras and Mustangs!" And then he spit at us, the clear liquid landing a few inches in front of Bob's shoe.

Bob frowned for a second, but then the smile returned at full force."You both could really use a good makeover and," he wrinkled up his nose, as if he smelt something terrible," a bath. And bein' the nice people we are, David, would you do the honor of giving him one?"

"Gladly," he replied, striking out to reach the boy, fast as an asp. He wrenched the Greasers arm towards him, and shoved him face first into the fountain, or the 'bath' as Bob so graciously put it. As he struggled, David laughing in glee, I listened to the song blaring through the car speakers, and shivered.

_'He's just a poor boy from a poor family. Spare him his life from this monstrosity. Easy come, easy go, will you let me go? Bismillah! No we will not let you go. Let him go! Bismillah! No we will not let you go. Let me go! Will not let you go! Let me go! Will not let you go! Let me go-o-o-o! No, no, no, no, no, no, no! Oh mama mia, mama mia, mama mia let me go!' _

There was an odd feeling in my gut as I listened to that, and watched the boy relax slightly. And then his friend Johnny sprang up and ran towards Bob like the devil was on his heels.

It all happened so fast, and I half drowned out the gasps and cries as I watched as the Greaser ran up and stabbed Bob in the heart with a switchblade, right in the heart. He was dead before he hit the ground.

_'So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye? _

I was confused, and shocked, and for some odd reason I felt oddly drained.

_So you think you can love me and leave me to die? _

I felt, rather than saw, Andrew and Michael grab my arms and pull me backwards to the waiting car.

_'Oh, baby, can't do this to me, baby.' _

They shoved me into the backseat, slamming the door shut behind me as they went.

_'Just gotta get out, just gotta get right outta here.'_

We- we never checked his pulse! He could still be alive! I jumped out of the car, hopelessly running towards a limp and bloody Bob. The three other boys had driven off, along with the Greasers, but I still could remember the last words of the song.

_'Nothing really matters." _

I pushed Bob onto his back, placing two fingers by his neck, hoping, praying.

_'Anyone can see.' _

I waited ten seconds, thirty. No beat. No pulse.

_Nothing really matters.' _

My eyes wandered to his, considering they were still open. I blinked once. Twice. The world was fuzzy around the edges, I noticed.

_'Nothing really matters to me.' _

His eyes were still a slight aquamarine color, but I watched as they slowly dulled to gray, the color of ashes, floating in a dead wind.

_'Anyway the wind blows.' _

And so I sat there, watching blue turn to gray.

Until only ashes remained.


End file.
